


A Little Bit Me, A Little Bit You

by caramelle



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Established Relationship, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Humor, Married Couple, tbh this is the closest to a kid fic i'm probably ever going to write lmao
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-17
Updated: 2016-08-17
Packaged: 2018-08-09 10:39:27
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,811
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7798567
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/caramelle/pseuds/caramelle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"You know how kids are. They think having a baby’s like getting a puppy."</p><p>She cocks her head when Bellamy doesn't respond. "You okay?"</p><p>He suddenly stands in a single, smooth movement. "Yeah. I’m— I’ll just go get started on dinner."</p><p>Clarke blinks after his retreating back, thoroughly confused.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Or, the one where Bellamy wants kids, but doesn't know how to say it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Little Bit Me, A Little Bit You

**Author's Note:**

> all of my current WIPs are getting way too long so i need something cute and fluffy to rot my teeth while i slave through the others.
> 
> i apologise for any cavities caused.
> 
> (title like The Monkees song, only this fic isn’t like the song at all lmao)

 

 

 

 

 

 

Clarke grins to herself when she feels a nose nudging at her bare shoulder, the soft caress of lips and warm breath following it soon after.

 

“Good morning,” she mumbles into her pillow, eyes still closed.

 

“Good morning,” Bellamy echoes against her skin, pressing another gentle kiss to it before he moves, his arm sliding around and under her to turn her over onto her back.

 

Clarke shakes with silent laughter, cracking one eye open to peer down at him nuzzling into her neck. “Is this a _very_ good morning?”

 

Bellamy nips teasingly at her collarbone, and pulls back to smile affectionately at her. “Mind in the gutter as usual, Griffin.”

 

“Wonder where I got that from,” Clarke retorts flippantly, trailing one hand up his shoulder.

 

He grins, bright and sunny as her fingers curl into his unruly dark curls. “What are your plans for today?”

 

Having just completed an exhibition opening, she’s got a few days off to relax and recharge before heading back to work.

 

She hums, absently massaging at the base of his scalp. “Octavia asked if I’d pick Derrick up after school today. Her sitter’s got family visiting in town, so I said sure, if she’s willing to overlook the amount of cookie dough we’ll probably eat.”

 

“You are a bad influence,” Bellamy tells her, brushing locks of blonde back from her face, his own expression aglow with pure adoration.

 

“The worst,” she agrees with a nod. “But then again, she shouldn’t ask questions she doesn’t want to know the answers to.”

 

Bellamy leans in, dropping a kiss onto her jaw. “When it comes to her kid, I think O is definitely going to want to know all the answers.”

 

“Good point,” Clarke says, before a contented yawn escapes her lips. “Come on, it’s either sex or food right now, and I refuse to let you miss out on the most important meal of the day before a full day of classes.”

 

Bellamy scrunches his face as he lets his arm be lifted off of her, frowning as he flops over onto his back. “I can’t decide if this makes you the best wife ever, or the worst.”

 

She snorts as she shrugs one of his old hoodies on over the thin tank top she wears to bed. “Your life is _so_ hard. Let’s go, Blake,” she says, tossing one of his T-shirts at him on her way out. “I’m _making_ the eggs. I’m not promising I won’t finish all of it.”

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

Clarke cranes her neck over her shoulder when she hears the apartment door open, glancing back to hit pause on the TV.

 

“Princess? You home?”

 

“In here,” she calls back, in the lowest possible volume she thinks she can get away with without disturbing the dark-haired child slumbering with his head on her lap.

 

Bellamy appears in the living room, and the smile that stretches across his face when he sees her and his nephew is so _stupid happy_ that it kind of makes _her_ feel stupid happy, too.

 

“Hi,” he whispers, bracing one hand on the arm of the couch for support so he can lean in for a kiss.

 

“We never even got to the cookie dough,” Clarke says dryly, with a pointed glance at the five-year-old snoring quietly on her. It’s only a matter of time before he starts to drool, and they both know it.

 

“Probably for the best,” Bellamy says with a fond smile, reaching down to run a gentle hand over the boy’s head. “O say what time she’s coming to get him?”

 

“Not really,” Clarke says as he carefully lowers himself onto the other end of the couch, mindful to avoid Derrick’s socked feet. “She did say to go ahead and feed him dinner, though.”

 

“I’ll handle that,” Bellamy says instantly, his gaze travelling over the mess of crayons and markers and decorated sheets of paper and pages torn from colouring books strewn over the coffee table. “Looks like you were working plenty the last couple of hours.”

 

“On my day off, too,” she grouses, her contented smile betraying her tone of resignation. “He made that one for you, by the way.”

 

Bellamy leans forward to pick out the sheet she’s pointing at. He settles back into the couch, holding it up at arm’s length. “Er— which way is right side up?”

 

“It _is_ right side up,” Clarke informs him. “Also, rude.”

 

“He’s _five_ , Clarke,” Bellamy protests. He peers at the paper, crude strokes of yellow and blue splashed across it. “God, I really hope he’s got Lincoln’s art skills. O can barely draw a straight line with a ruler.”

 

Clarke shakes her head, fighting a grin. “He says it’s you,” she says after a few moments.

 

“Yeah, I’m starting to see that,” Bellamy says with a small smile, tilting the drawing sideways. “What _is_ it, though?”

 

“It’s you,” Clarke repeats, her gaze downcast and focused on Derrick’s sleeping face, her hand sweeping gentle caresses over his thick dark hair, courtesy of his mother. “And me. It’s, uh— our family.”

 

All of a sudden, Bellamy goes very still. He holds the drawing in front of him, motionless for so long that Clarke looks up after a while, her forehead creased in a frown.

 

“Bellamy?” she asks, after a full thirty seconds passes with no movement from him.

 

She watches bemusedly as Bellamy’s free hand comes up, the pads of his fingertips tracing lightly over the streaks of colour. “Derrick drew our family?”

 

“Yeah,” she says quietly. She fidgets in her seat, feeling vaguely discomfited. “It probably doesn’t mean anything. He was just— you know how kids are. They think having a baby’s like getting a puppy.”

 

She cocks her head when Bellamy doesn’t respond. “You okay?”

 

Bellamy suddenly stands from the couch in a single, smooth movement. “Yeah. I’m— I’ll just go get started on dinner.”

 

Clarke blinks after his retreating back, thoroughly confused.

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

Dinner is a strange affair.

 

Derrick is excessively chatty, as five-year-olds always are. He rambles on nonstop, talking about everything from his preschool teachers to his four best friends to playground politics to constellations to a dream he’d had two nights ago involving a giant purple dog.

 

For some reason, though, Bellamy is unusually subdued.

 

He responds to Derrick as readily as ever, smiling encouragingly at the little boy and cracking little jokes here and there, but there’s an uncharacteristically muted quality to his expressions and mannerisms that has Clarke genuinely worried.

 

He perks up a little more when his sister shows up midway through their mini frozen yoghurt parfaits. Octavia cheerfully plops down at the table with an extra spoon, stealing bites from everyone’s cups and keeping up a steady stream of chatter with Derrick.

 

She seems carefree enough, but from the glances she shoots Clarke’s way whenever Bellamy’s head is turned, Clarke can tell that the younger Blake is picking up on her brother’s odd behaviour as well.

 

And odd it remains, all throughout the rest of dessert and clearing the table.

 

“Hey, before I forget,” Bellamy says, turning away from the sink as he wipes his hands on a dishtowel. “Got you a present the last time I was in New York, buddy. You wanna come get it?”

 

“Yes!” Derrick yells immediately.

 

“ _Please_ ,” he adds when Octavia sends him a pointed look.

 

Bellamy laughs, placing both hands on Derrick’s shoulders to guide him out of the kitchen. “You got it, little man. This-a-way!”

 

Once the study door closes with a faint snick, Octavia turns, arching a brow at Clarke. “What’s up with you guys?”

 

Clarke shifts her weight from one foot to the other. “Things got a little… _weird_ earlier today.”

 

Octavia does that thing where she somehow manages to arch both brows at the same time without looking comically surprised, like most people usually do when they try it. “Did you two get caught screwing by my _son_?”

 

“Wha— _no_ ,” Clarke exclaims incredulously, glancing down the hallway to make sure the door is still closed. “No, Octavia. _Jesus_.”

 

Octavia folds her arms across her middle, looking so much like Bellamy for a second that it makes Clarke want to smile. “Well, what is it then?”

 

Clarke sighs exasperatedly, reaching for the wine bottle. One glass of wine is nowhere near enough for her current train of thought. “Derrick drew a picture.”

 

Octavia shrugs, shaking her head when Clarke lifts the bottle inquiringly at her. “Gotta drive us home. And so what? He draws, like, fifty pictures a day.”

 

Clarke presses her lips into a tight line, jerking the cork out of the neck. “He drew a picture of us.” She refuses to look at the brunette. “With a baby.”

 

Silence rings, deafeningly loud, for a full three seconds.

 

“Oh my God,” Octavia says. She takes a small step towards Clarke, her eyes shining bright. “Oh my _God_. Are you _actually_ thinking about—”

 

“We’ve only been married two years, Octavia,” Clarke mutters as she moves to top up her glass, a little embarrassed. Frankly, she’s embarrassed that she’s embarrassed at all. She’s flushing red because she’s discussing the possibility of having kids _with her husband_.

 

God, how is she even allowed to _drink_ wine.

 

Octavia rolls her eyes. “Lincoln and I knew each other three years before having Derrick,” she points out.

 

“That’s different,” Clarke protests, replacing the cork in the wine bottle. “You and Lincoln are a _supercouple_. You were always meant to be together. That’s why your relationship timeline is so— so _accelerated_.”

 

Octavia is shaking her head before she can even finish. “Wrong, Clarke. It’s because we always _knew_ we were meant to be together.” She nimbly steals Clarke’s glass and lifts it to her own lips, smirking at the blonde over the rim. “Some of us don’t exactly _fancy_ taking eight fucking _years_ to figure it out, okay?”

 

Clarke rolls her eyes. “This is bullying,” she grumbles under her breath.

 

“This is me telling you like it is, Clarke,” Octavia says with a grin, handing back the glass once she’s swallowed her stolen mouthful of wine.

 

Clarke casts a glance at her sister-in-law, teeth busily worrying her bottom lip. “Maybe Bellamy doesn’t _want_ kids.”

 

Octavia levels her with a flat look. “Trust me, Clarke. Bell’s wanted to have your babies since the first time you went off on him with one of your social justice rants.”

 

Clarke pauses, looking up at her sharply. “That’s literally the first time we met, Octavia.”

 

The brunette shoots her another smug smirk. “Exactly.”

 

Clarke scoffs disbelievingly, but the flush is back, and it’s creeping its way up her neck and cheeks. Okay, she _really_ should not be anywhere near this flustered over the implication that her _husband of two years_ had a _crush_ on her when they were in _college_.

 

“I don’t know,” she says, fingers curling and uncurling reflexively around the bowl of her wineglass. “This is totally different. It’s a _kid_. Moving in together and getting married is one thing. We’re talking about making a _person_ here.” She glances over to Octavia, wearing an unconvinced frown. “How can you be so sure he wants that?”

 

Octavia’s smile turns uncharacteristically tender, even under the harsh fluorescent lights of the kitchen. She leans forward, resting a hand on Clarke’s arm.

 

“How can you be so sure he _doesn’t_?” she says gently. “Look, I could go on and on about all the ways Bellamy loves you and what a fucking amazing dad he’d be, but you already know all of that. Just _ask_ him, straight out. Tell him how you feel.” She rolls her eyes, huffing a fond laugh. “Knowing him, he probably just doesn’t want to be the first to bring it up. Since, well, you’re the one who’s going to have to actually — you know —  _incubate_ the thing inside of you.”

 

Clarke wrinkles her nose. “Wow, you’re really selling me here.”

 

Octavia shrugs. “Whatever. It’s Bell. He probably just doesn’t want you to feel like he’s pressuring you into anything.” Her smile turns into a devilish grin. “I mean, eight _fucking_ years, dude.”

 

Bellamy and Derrick re-enter the kitchen to the sight of the two women lost in fits of hearty laughter, eyes crinkled with warmth and happiness.

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

An hour later, Clarke looks up as Bellamy pads into their bedroom, rubbing a towel over his wet face.

 

“How did Derrick like his present?” she asks, folding over the corner of her current page before closing the book and setting it aside. Her habit of dog-earing her books drives Bellamy nuts, but they’ve agreed on a compromise — as long as she keeps it to her books only, and leaves their shared stuff out of it, everything’s good.

 

“He loved it,” Bellamy says, brightening up visibly. “Kid almost read the whole thing on the spot. Kept turning the pages like a machine, asking a million questions at one go.”

 

Bellamy’s present for Derrick was one of those books that feature mythology stories for children — the kind that’s large, hardcover, and full of lots and lots of glossy pictures.

 

“Probably gets it from his uncle,” Clarke teases as he tosses the towel into the hamper sitting in the corner of the room and climbs into bed.

 

“The pages thing? Sure,” Bellamy says, reaching out to feel around on the nightstand for his own book. “The million questions bit? That’s one hundred percent O, hands down.”

 

Clarke smiles at him as he brings a yellowed paperback onto his lap, a sliver of bookmark peeking out from the top edge. “Yeah, that sounds about right,” she says, watching as he opens the book. Clearing her throat, she forces herself to maintain as steady a tone as she can manage. “What do you think about having one that’s a hundred percent you?”

 

Bellamy goes very, very still. “What?” he croaks roughly, book still open in his hands.

 

She shrugs, more jerky than nonchalant. “Well, more like fifty percent you, actually. And, uh, fifty percent… me.”

 

She barely has time to blink before his lips are on hers, both of his hands cradling her face as he kisses her deeply. The sheets are tangling around both their legs, and his book is probably getting crushed in the mess, but he’s pressing her body into the bed with his, and his fingers are tangling into her hair, and she’s honestly finding it very difficult to care about anything else.

 

She laughs helplessly when he finally pulls away, hovering breathless and flushed above her. “Bellamy— your _book._ ”

 

“I don’t care,” he says instantly, and that’s how she knows how important this truly is to him. It makes her heart swell to about three times its size. “Are you _serious_ right now?”

 

She reaches up, carding her fingers through his dark curls. They’re still slightly damp from his shower, all soft under her touch. “I’m _seriously_ thinking about it, yes. And I really wanted to know what you think.”

 

She’s barely at the end of her sentence before he’s kissing her again, lips moving eagerly against hers as his arms slide around her back, pressing them so close together she can barely breathe.

 

They’re panting by the time they break apart, their foreheads pressed to each other as they struggle to catch their breaths.

 

“I think I love you,” Bellamy half-gasps against her lips, one hand curving around her jaw to cup the back of her head, cradling her close. “I think I’m in love with you, and I love you, so much.”

 

“Oh, good,” she manages to rasp out between breaths, her eyes shining bright. “Or this would have gotten real awkward real fast.”

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

Six months later, Clarke is on her back in a medical examination chair, watching with wide eyes as a distorted image flickers to life on the small screen in front of her.

 

“… And that right there?” the gynaecologist is saying as she points to a small lump outlined on the screen. “That’s your baby.”

 

The large hand wrapped around Clarke’s tightens, and she returns the squeeze with one of her own.

 

“That’s our baby, Bell,” she whispers, suddenly unable to see clearly through the rising surge of tears welling up in her eyes.

 

Bellamy swallows, bringing Clarke’s hand up to his mouth so he can press his lips to it. “Yeah, Clarke. That’s our baby.”

 

When Clarke finally tears her gaze away from the screen to look at him, his eyes are bright and brimming with tears too.

 

Even with the way it’s expanding inside of her ribcage, her heart is nowhere near large enough to contain the love currently overflowing out of it.

 

She looks back at the screen, leaning unhesitatingly into the kiss Bellamy presses to her temple with a helpless smile.

 

It’s a good thing that soon enough, there’s going to be one more person around to receive all that love, then.

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading! feel free to make my day with kudos/comments, mucho appreciated cos i love hearing what you think =)
> 
> come hold me [on tumblr](http://caramelkru.tumblr.com)!


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